Archive for the 'Spring 1999' Category
by Pamela Rice Hahn
 I imagine the first cookout occurred one day when, after a thunderstorm, cavemen (and women) from the Bar-B clan formed a queue around a wooly mammoth that had been zapped and charred by a bolt of lightning. Once they tasted that fire-roasted flavor, mammoth tartare just didn’t satisfy their palates anymore. Finding a way to duplicate that aroma and piquancy became as important as their hunting rituals. This was a can-do tribe!
So, because they were a forward-thinking group of nomads, they formed a committee. The committee then designated project teams, whose job it was to find ways to grill meat for the next feast. They rounded up herds of animals and trapped them in the valley, while the more limber members on their team danced a rain dance around the perimeter. They herded those animals to different locations, just in case the rumors about lightning strikes frequency were true.
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by Tami Coxen
Just when my life is zippity doo-dah’ing along, the reality of womanhood drops Mr. Icky in my lap.
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An essay by RJ Corradino
“…but it’s in your blood, honey. You see me drink it all the time. And since the time I was three or four years old, my grandmother would have the truck come and bring four, five cases of Coke to the house. Every week.” –Christina Corradino, my grandmother
Some months ago, I awoke with a terrible headache and stiff neck. Knowing that stimulants could cause such ailments, it seemed a wise idea to skip my normal caffeine rituals that day. I had already gone a weekend without a fix, just by accident. I could go another day. For several hours, I competed with pain in my head, neck, and shoulders, along with a growing craving for a certain caramel-colored, carbonated beverage.
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An essay by Nelson Shogren
We call it “Men’s Town.” Right at noon on Friday, four of us quietly switched off our computers, watched the screens flicker and go black, and headed for the door with no intention of coming back. A few co-workers suspected that the men wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and hiking boots were outbound for adventure, and they were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.
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Posted on April 30, 1999.
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by Troy More
By most accounts, the drive-in theatre on Highway 17 should have been a peaceful, relaxing place to take the family for a night of reasonably priced entertainment. The only downfall that kept it from being so was its location, almost exactly halfway between our hometown of Mosquito Flats, and the town of Sodbuster Junction, whose inhabitants where the natural enemies of our people. Where this rivalry began has been lost to the mists of time, perhaps it was at a softball tournament, or a school basketball game, but whatever the reason, it was our duty to despise them.
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Posted on March 22, 1999.
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by Alan C. Baird
I watched the tiny bird hop down the sidewalk on Grand River Avenue, a busy six-lane thoroughfare which separates East Lansing and the campus of Michigan State. From a distance, the little fellow seemed aloof and unconcerned. But as I strolled by, in the middle of my Saturday shopping, he got spooked and hopped toward the street. I wasn’t paying much attention: on some level I just assumed that he would fly away, as birds usually do. After all, most of them have a fairly wide comfort zone. But nagging at the back of my brain was a question as to why this bird was still on the ground at a distance of three, two and now one foot away? Evidently he decided that one foot was close enough, thank you, and he fluttered out into the middle of traffic.
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Posted on March 21, 1999.
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Portfolio
by Kathan
Our administrative assistant, Michele
Wild Billy:
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Posted on March 20, 1999.
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An essay by Pamela Rice Hahn
Suppose, just suppose. …
A man strolls into a bank, walks up to the teller, and makes a polite request.
“Please put all of the money in this bag.”
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Pammy, the main character in the Writing Woes comic strip by Pamela Rice Hahn. Pammy also appears in the Chronic Illness Realities comic strip by Pamela Rice Hahn on Chronic-Illness.org. When Pammy dons her gray suit and assumes her counter identity of Thera Pist, you can be assured that something's inspired her to go to work as an Observational Therapist.
Many of those Thera Pist comic strip observations can now be seen on the Observational Therapist Web site.
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Because of chronic illness,